Into the Heart of One Great Brain

Rib Questions & Painter Dreams

“It hurts to breathe. I think it’s bruised, too. Darn it.” I rubbed the large stuttering scab up my side. I had reached high, jumped, and fell into the tree.

“That one’s mine,” he joked, “Quit poking at it.” I laughed.

Then later I dreamed of ribs in Chagall style.

Swirling blue purple ocean skies over homes, our home and our city.

And the lights looked like diamonds on my wedding ring. In clusters, in threes, largest in the center and not welded to the bands, the milky way, so that all spun.

And I flew without wings, my legs floating back, my dress fluttering around knees. The dress was a whisper of pink. And it was hard to keep my toes pointed just so.

And I held my side, the right side, where his was reportedly. There was blood. It was warm against skin before the air hit it. And the space ached like I’d run too hard.

I looked down and saw him sitting on the ground, on leg crooked toward me, tablet & pen in hand, smallish bone laying next to him. Is that mine? I never caught his attention. He never looked up to the sky.

I wanted to fly down to see, to ask directly, but I was stuck high in this weird floating circle. Did he cut it out? Take it back? And I looked outward at the far distant indigo. And I saw stars and felt this void pushing. Or was it pulling?

***

This really isn’t a fight, I think. More like my bruised heart pulsing out loud. More a tangle of words as I try to steady myself. And I explained it to myself alone all night long and my head is foggy and I thought I was beyond this.

And my confused words reached him as an assault instead of a need for comfort, for reassurance, for strength to pull from the spiral as he once did on a park bench. Isn’t this really what most are?

So he left. He changed his mind about taking the bag.

And I cleaned as if company were coming.

And I looked through art books to pull me from this reality. From this right here and into Mexican pottery for practical uses and paintings with unreal bold colors living out loud and telling stories in a surreal way with flowers and headdress.

I served chili for dinner as it was planned yesterday.

Then that night I dreamed in Frida Kahlo.

I rode a bus uptown to buy mangoes and ice for dessert, but the bus crashed and I limped to the table for all to see, but he, the tall one with the wild thick lashes over dark eyes and delicate hands, ignored the limp and my bruised cheek bones, where it always hurts the worst to be hit.

And later, it felt like millineums, I stood there wearing a crown over starkly parted hair and wagged the slim feminine bone at him. I watched myself stumbling shout indignant in a foreign language and begin to stuff this gaping wound with butterfly wings, daisy heads and petals and rich green leaves.

Somewhere I asked if I gave it back, this slender bone? Did I rip it out because I didn’t want it anymore? This hurt of not enough? Did I think the space would be better?

Or did he with artisan skill slice and pull forth? Take back? Because he felt not enough?

The salve I applied smelled of mango and sky. And the gauze felt light when I wrapped my middle. The fan above the bed spun so slowly, I got lost in its turns as I fell asleep in my dream under such cool air flowing.

***

It feels like a fight. Which scientist said “Fight or Flight?”

First come the spat words, the harshness reaching secret places and rubbing like a scouring pad raw & shiny, then the bag that slaps tile. And I say, “I don’t understand.” Thinking, this is just a tangle.

Is this where the rib is taken back? With the words “It’s just not worth it?” Are these the scalpel? The implied “you?”

Or is this when, tired and stumbling, I rip it out?

And what will I remember from this? Will it be painted somewhere in my bone, deep in marrow? Tattoo-ed? This label?

The gentle laughter like breeze. I know the bruises, mine & his. I saw the glitches in gait.

No, I will remember when, in the middle of fixing four smaller plates with one green vegetable, I felt the arms wrap around middle and slide up tight on bone.

I will remember the warm breath on nape.

I will remember the “Come here, come here, come here, I’m cold” said in bed later as I was pulled so close I laughed at being swallowed whole for warmth’s sake.

And I wonder if I’ll dream in Matisse tonight.

If the wild electric blue wall will meet pink in pleasure.

If the vase on the swirled elaborate clothed table will hold peonies or daisies, which are my favorite, in a glass vase. Stems crossing messy visible.

If the window will be curtained to frame the sea that beckons. The glint of wave that carries the smell of salt.

The two chairs waiting for the couple to taste the sweetness of these oranges. Right here.

The Big Idea

To be brave is to love someone unconditionally, without expecting anything in return. To just give. That takes courage, because we don't want to fall on our faces or leave ourselves open to hurt.
- Madonna

My Prayer…

Dear Lord grant me the grace of wonder. Surprise me, amaze me, awe me in every crevice of Your universe. Delight me to see how Your Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not His, to the Father through the features of men's faces. Each day enrapture me with Your marvelous things without number. I do not ask to see the reason for it all; I ask only to share the wonder of it all.